Dying for a Living Complete Boxset (Books 1-7): Dying for a Living

By Kory M. Shrum

This complete boxset includes all seven of the Dying for a Living novels: Dying for a Living, Dying by the Hour, Dying for Her: A Companion Novel, Dying Light, Worth Dying For, Dying Breath and Dying Day.

Called "smart, imaginative, and insanely addictive" by New York Times bestseller Darynda Jones, this urban fantasy will thrill even the most die-hard urban fantasy fans.

On the morning before her 67th death, it is business as usual for agent Jesse Sullivan: meet with the mortician, counsel soon-to-be-dead clients, and have coffee while reading the latest regeneration theory. Jesse dies for a living, literally. Because of a neurological disorder, she is one of the population's rare 2% who can serve as a death surrogate, dying so others don't have to.

Although each death replacement is different, the result is the same: a life is saved, and Jesse resurrects days later with sore muscles, new scars, and another hole in her memory. But when Jesse is murdered and becomes the sole suspect in a federal investigation, more than her freedom and sanity are at stake. She must catch the killer herself--or die trying.

And that was only the beginning...

 

Praise for Dying for a Living

★★★★★ "frigging LOVED it. It is one of the most original story lines I have read to date. That alone gets it an extra star.. so it's a 6 star review!!
★★★★ "A well-paced, fun contemporary fantasy. This is a really clever premise."
★★★★★ "Breathtakingly absorbing paranormal thriller."
★★★★★ "Finally, a fresh new voice in Urban Fantasy!"
★★★★★ "This was a great read!"
★★★★★ "Interesting Premise and great writing. Very entertaining book!"
★★★★★ "Wow! I almost feel like I couldn't do a review for this book justice because I couldn't describe how wonderful it was…"
★★★★★ "…it was so different and readable that I could not put the book down.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kory M. Shrum
• Release date: Aug 23, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386984184

Kory M. Shrum

Kory M. Shrum is author of the bestselling Shadows in the Water and Dying for a Living series, as well as several other novels. She has loved books and words all her life. She reads almost every genre you can think of, but when she writes, she writes science fiction, fantasy, and thrillers, or often something that’s all of the above.In 2020, she launched a true crime podcast “Who Killed My Mother?”, sharing the true story of her mother’s tragic death. You can listen for free on YouTube or your favorite podcast app. She also publishes poetry under the name K.B. Marie.When not writing, eating, reading, or indulging in her true calling as a stay-at-home dog mom, she can usually be found under thick blankets with snacks. The kettle is almost always on.She lives in Michigan with her equally bookish wife, Kim, and their rescue pug, Charley.Learn more at www.korymshrum.com where you can sign up for her newsletter and receive free, exclusive ebooks.

Book preview

Dying for a Living Boxset

DYING FOR A LIVING BOXSET

THE COMPLETE SERIES BOOKS 1 - 7

KORY M. SHRUM

CONTENTS

An Exclusive Offer For You

Dying for a Living

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Acknowledgments

Dying by the Hour

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Acknowledgments

Dying for Her

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Chapter 68

Chapter 69

Chapter 70

Chapter 71

Chapter 72

Acknowledgments

Dying Light

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Acknowledgments

Worth Dying For

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Author's Note

Acknowledgments

Dying Breath

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Acknowledgments

Dying Day

Author’s Note

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Epilogue

Acknowledgments

Thank you!

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Preview of Shadows in the Water

Shadows in the Water - Prologue

Shadows in the Water - Chapter 1

Shadows in the Water - Chapter 2

About the Author

Also by Kory M. Shrum

AN EXCLUSIVE OFFER FOR YOU

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If giveaways and free stories sound like something you’re interested in, please look for the special offer in the back of this book.

Happy reading,

Kory M. Shrum

DYING FOR A LIVING

DYING FOR A LIVING SERIES BOOK 1

For Kim

1

G ood morning, Mr. Reynolds. I used my best sing-song voice. Are you ready to die today?

I don’t think we should stand so close to him, Ally said, pulling me away from the bed. And don’t talk with your mouth full.

Mr. Reynolds still didn’t respond when I turned on the bedside lamp, illuminating his bedroom in a butter-yellow glow. I nudged him. "Good morning."

His eyes flew open as he jolted upright and pressed his back against the wooden headboard. Crushing the comforter to his chest, he fumbled an earplug from each ear. His darting eyes searched our faces. Who the hell are you? he asked.

His graying brown hair was disheveled and thinning in front. His blue eyes squinted against the onslaught of light. He was an enormous man, six feet tall and nearly 300 pounds according to our profile.

I flashed Ally a look. Beside me, my personal assistant was taller by a few inches, making her 5’8" or so. We’d taken the stairs and Reynolds’s apartment was warm. She unbuttoned her red A-line coat, revealing her off-white ruffled blouse and dress pants underneath. Her straightened blond hair, chocolate-eyes and tiny diamond nose stud, caught and held the soft light of Reynolds’s lamp.

She flashed the photo attached to the front of the file folder at me, and then nodded twice. We were in the right place on the right day.

Of course, I could still have fun with this.

Burglars, I said with my mouth full of muffin, chewing. If you could just strip those pillowcases off and fill them with your valuables, we’ll be on our way.

His eyes fixed on the half-devoured sugar bomb in my hand. Is that mine?

I slowed my chewing, thinking of how best to answer this inquiry. Could be. It was on your kitchen counter.

So you took it? He pushed the comforter off his chest. The disorientation of sleep was wearing off.

Mr. Reynolds. Ally leaned toward him, pushing her hair behind her ear as it fell forward. Her tone was professional and kind. She was good at dealing with clients. Me? Not so much. We’re here about your death-replacement.

His face remained pinched. One of the problems with letting hospitals orchestrate death-replacements was that clients didn’t meet their agents until their actual death-day.

At the hospital, remember? Your physician helped you schedule a replacement last April, Ally continued. This is Ms. Jesse Sullivan. She’ll be your agent today.

He turned his narrowing eyes to me. She’s the zombie?

Was it my job to remind him zombie was a derogatory term? No, but I did it anyway.

Necronite, I corrected. I tossed the muffin wrapper into the bedside trashcan. "I’m the necronite here to die so you can keep on a-livin’."

I said that last part in the twangy, country music tone our fair city of Nashville was known for. He looked me over head to toe. What did he expect a necronite to look like? Probably not this young or wearing nothing more than jeans and a T-shirt beneath my hoodie.

How did you get in?

Doorman, I answered. Look—

Ally cut in, afraid to let my snark go unchecked. It’s important Jesse stays close to you until the incident occurs. As the doctor probably explained during your consultation, she needs to shadow you for the entire day.

Mr. Reynolds turned to the bedside clock. It’s only midnight.

That’s generally when the day starts, I said, stretching my cramped neck to one side. Your death-day is September 18 th and that’s today, right?

Yes. He didn’t sound so sure.

Ta-da, I said, throwing my arms wide. Here I am.

Startled, he leaned out of my reach.

Ally elbowed me and I jerked my arms in to protect my ribs. She forced another smile at Reynolds. We called you earlier, but you didn’t answer. We rang the doorbell and knocked, but you still didn’t answer.

I folded my arms over my chest, tired of standing over him. We thought you already died.

He uncurled a beefy fist to show his earplugs. I wear these when I sleep. I guess I didn’t hear you.

We were concerned, that’s all. It’s our job to keep you safe, Ally added. Oh, her smile was really shining now. We apologize for entering your home without permission.

She nudged me with her elbow again. Yeah, sorry, I grumbled.

His shoulders slumped and he seemed more relaxed the longer Ally smiled at him. It was her gift, I guess, the ability to put people at ease. It certainly wasn’t a trait I possessed.

Sir, if you can just act normal today, follow your usual routine, we’ll be here and ready for anything, Ally grinned. Her weight shifted. She was tired of standing, too. Please, go back to sleep. We’ll remain close in case you need us.

I gave him credit. He did try to go back to sleep, though he left the earplugs out, probably suspicious of us. I guess I wouldn’t be able to sleep with two weirdos leaning against my bedroom wall watching me, especially one as fidgety as myself.

Thirty minutes into this babysitting guard duty from which I derived an income, I was so bored. But waiting for death to show up was a normal part of the replacement process.

At 7:45 a.m. Reynolds was finally dressed and ready for work. He swore he usually walked to work, so walk we did. Franklin Street was busy, the honking horns conveying that not everyone was happy to be alive on this fine Monday. The morning air held a characteristically September chill to it, so I zipped my dark hoodie up to my chin and warmed my cold hands in my back pockets.

Ally could look as professional as she liked but my clothes would be destroyed by the end of the day—one way or another. Sure I had nicer clothes at home, but when I worked a replacement job, I couldn’t wear those. Doctors really liked to cut my clothes off. I mean, they saw my dying body and it was like "Nurse! The scissors, please."

The time I was hit and killed by a bus, they cut my clothes off and I was wearing my favorite Three Stiffs with Picks T-shirt. The local band’s members were necronites like me—which meant we had the same neurological disorder—but they weren’t death-replacement agents and had no government employment contract like I did.

Man, every time I think about that shirt, I get pissed all over again. They’d signed it, for goodness sake. The hospital ruined it more than the bus did. I could’ve kept it, damn them. Blood on a rock T-shirt is cool.

Anyway, that was the last straw, so now I only own a plethora of dark jeans and hoodies. Sometimes Ally was able to intervene and save my clothes, but most body fluids stain, so I still went through an entire wardrobe quickly—shoes too. I didn’t know how I lost my shoes when I died.

At home, I have a whole basket of shoes I only have one of and I refuse to buy more. They work. Like today, I was wearing one red Nike sneaker and one blue Reebok sneaker, each one tied with floppy laces. Maybe that’s why Reynolds kept staring at my feet as we walked.

We’d only made it two blocks down the road, pushing through the swarming crowds, past opening shops and businesses, and then the conversation took an inevitable turn.

Mr. Reynolds turned to Ally and flashed what I suspected was a well-rehearsed smile. His voice shifted to a carefully inflected tone. Are you a zombie too?

Necronite, I said, correcting him again. If I wanted to playfully call myself a zombie that was one thing. I was trying to reclaim the word. But people can’t just go equating my lifestyle to mindless, brain-eating corpses. The politically correct term is necronite. You don’t call black people the n-word.

Necronite, got it, he blurted, embarrassed by the fact that I was speaking at full volume. His eyes nervously scanned the passing crowd. He turned to Ally again. Do you…reanimate also?

"Ooo, reanimate. Breaking out the big words, I said. No, Ally doesn’t die. She is one hundred percent mortal."

I’ve seen the ‘Let’s get to know the cute assistant’ bit. I don’t blame him. Ally is gorgeous. I’ve made a play for her myself because gorgeous is gorgeous. I’m just lucky that Ally likes women or I probably would have looked as ridiculous as Mr. Reynolds here.

I’m just the hired help, Ally said with a polite smile, which was a permanent fixture when mediating between me and my clients. Maybe it was her round cheeks or tiny cute nose that made people like her. She just looked like a nice person—unless you pissed her off, of course. Jesse’s schedule is hectic, and it’s my job to keep her sane.

You must have your work cut out for you, he said.

Did he just insult me?

I could play. "You’re not her type. You need breasts, bigger ones."

His jaw set tight. Is she always this… charming?

I opened my mouth to show him how charming I could be. Ally shot me a pleading look behind his back. Brinkley, my government-assigned handler, popped into my head. One more bad review, Jesse, and I’ll kill you. A couple of times. If Mr. Reynolds thought I was a challenge, he should try dealing with Brinkley.

I rolled my eyes at Ally and gave my rehearsed speech.

"Dear Sir or Madam, I am sorry for this inconvenience. In the light of your impending death, this must be a stressful time for you. Please accept my apologies for this situation and let me offer my reassurance that no matter what happens, you can count on me to save your ass."

Brinkley made me memorize this verbatim, and to be spiteful, I haven’t changed a word. Not even the Sir or Madam part. Okay, maybe I changed save you to save your ass, but what’s the difference really?

Reynolds blinked twice and stared. Appearing to reach some conclusion, he opened the door to his building and entered without saying another word.

The South Tower where Mr. Reynolds worked was huge, stretching far up into the overcast sky. The building looked like a cat to me, with a pointy radio antenna on each side of its roof. We followed him and his swinging briefcase through the revolving glass doors into the building, which smelled like women’s perfume and floor polish. Once we had our plastic visitor badges attached, we took the elevator up to Reynolds’s office on the fifteenth floor. His office was the coolest, strangest thing I’d ever seen.

It was laid out like a bi-level, encased in glass. The entrance was two glass doors that pushed open. The outer wall was a full window overlooking downtown Nashville. The floor was pale hardwood, shining in the slanted autumn light. A spiraling staircase with see-through steps coiled off to the right, very modern. The lower level held only his secretary’s desk and a clear view of the city. Reynolds’s desk was located on the upper, loft-like part suspended in the air.

Good thing he wasn’t into dresses or the poor secretary would’ve had more than a downtown view through the clear floor suspended above her desk. Of course, it went both ways. I was sure that he spent his work days enjoying all the sunshine with a side of cleavage.

His desk and bookcase were as transparent as the window behind him. I gave Ally a weary look. She got it.

We need your blood type, she said, as Reynolds put his briefcase on his desk.

O-positive, why?

This is a lot of glass. I leaned over the metal rail encircling the loft area to see the secretary’s desk and floor below. I know people dig the sleek, modern look, but all I saw was an accident waiting to happen. We might have a problem.

Reynolds looked confused. The doctor told me any type of death was replaceable.

No reputable doctor would tell him that. I can only do so much for a body. Most of my clients require post-replacement medical care. Point-blank gunshot wounds to the head, for example, are not replaceable. What did he expect me to do? Pick up his brain chunks and stuff his skull?

Ally sat her purse in one of the four bright red chairs opposite Reynolds’s desk, the only splash of color in the whole place apart from the hanging fern with its greedy outstretched tendrils.

Jesse can die for you, but she can’t heal your body. If you get cut, you’ll need blood.

I surveyed the titles on his bookcase and found not an ounce of pleasure reading, a real bore, this guy. I was looking for a personality, common interests, anything that would make me want to save Reynolds. Nada.

Ally pulled a survey packet and clipboard from her oversized purse, before fishing for a pen. Then she extended the ballpoint with a click, and settled into the chair. While you set up your computer, I wonder if I can ask you a few questions about your replacement experience?

Unraveling his laptop cord, Reynolds paused in his unpacking. She hasn’t done anything.

No, not yet, Ally said, flashing her work-with-me grin. You’ll receive your post-replacement survey in the mail in a week or two. Hopefully, you’ll fill it out and return it in the postage-paid envelope. These questions pertain to the enrollment process.

Reynolds bent down and plugged the cord into the surge protector under his desk. All right, Ms. Gallagher, if it makes your job easier.

She tucked her hair behind her ear and tried to look sweet. It does, thank you.

Ally might be a lesbian, but she knew how to charm the pants off any man. I rolled my eyes. The two were making me nauseous. She readied her pen. Did you intentionally plan your death-screening or did your physician recommend it?

He settled into his seat and turned on the computer. I went to get my blood-pressure checked and the doctor recommended it. He explained my insurance rates would drop if I pre-screened.

How much time passed between the physician’s referral and your meeting with the A.M.P.?

A.M.P.?

Analyst of necro-Magnetic Phenomenon.

Oh, the psychic, he said, his eyes lighting with recognition. I met her two days later.

Psychic is another derogatory term, Mr. Reynolds, I said. Not to mention an inaccurate way to describe the ex-military, medically-altered analysts. My favorite A.M.P. was Gloria. She hated the term psychic and you’ve got to defend your friends when they aren’t around to defend themselves. We talked about derogatory terms, didn’t we?

The public wasn’t supposed to think of them as psychics anyway. Somehow that dirty little secret leaked. PR tried to push A.M.P.s as nothing more than gifted statisticians, brainiacs who could take all the factors of a person’s life and guess when they’d die within a twenty-four-hour window, up to one year in advance. Use the word psychic, or guess for that matter, and no one would have invested in the replacement industry because the modern mind only believes in science and money. Of course Lane, my sometimes beau, argued that telling people A.M.P.s were guinea pig soldiers tortured into becoming drug-dependent psychics wouldn’t incite much faith either. He had a point.

The Death-Management Industry, including the whole screening through replacement process had a 95 percent success rate. That’s almost as good as birth control. No one wanted to be surprised by death and now they didn’t have to be. People liked the security. The federal government liked the fact that every aspect of the process was taxable. Hello, revenue. And the military liked that they were putting a positive spin on their greatest screw-up of this decade.

Mainstreaming the Death-Management Industry created jobs, fattened pockets and basically pulled all our heads above the waters of a recession. Hell, even China and Japan have launched their own industries in the last few months. Death-screening commercials now outnumbered breast-cancer commercials two to one. However, not everyone accepted the industry.

The Church launched their anti-Death Management campaign not long after the industry was established. But it wasn’t until lately, when the conservative party took office, that their power was really felt. Less people were screening. Those fat pockets were thinning. I was looking at the possibility of unemployment in a year or two. Frankly, I was okay with that—but for other reasons.

Your A.M.P.’s name and how long it took for her to complete your evaluation? Ally asked.

Gildroy, Godfrey, or…, his voice trailed. His eyes glanced down, unfocused. I can’t remember. The doctor called early the following week and asked me to come back in to discuss my options.

How did you feel when you first learned the news?

He leaned back in his chair, running his thick fingers through his hair. "You mean, when the doctor told me some psychic—sorry, A.M.P.—said I was going to die? It’s not the conversation one professional has with another. I didn’t believe it at first."

Ally kept scrawling on the page, nodding. When the doctor informed you of the analyst’s results, did he make your options clear?

He scratched his chin. Either I took my chances and hoped the day passed without incident or I took precautions.

Was it a difficult decision? Ally asked, looking up from the page.

Not really, he answered. I get the money back if nothing happens. I’d say my life is worth more than a mere fifty grand.

That’s right, Ally said.

I’d also have to return the fee if I screwed up and he died. I could die myself and wouldn’t even get to keep my 20% cut. Since he’d be dead, I guess that didn’t matter to him.

Last question. Would you recommend death-replacement to a family member or friend?

Ask me that one at the end of the day, he said. Once I see what happens.

Behind one of the books I found a little panda, the kind you squeeze and its eyes bulge out of its head. When you squeezed the panda, it squeaked. I pointed it at Reynolds and gave it a squeeze. "What do you do here?"

He came around the desk and took the panda from me the way one might seize their mother’s urn from a child’s grubby and unreliable fingers.

I’m a marketing and media consultant, he said. We do advertising for local businesses, night clubs, and popular consumer products.

I’d bet he was one of our very own PR guys. Otherwise, I wasn’t quite sure why Brinkley put his file in my bin. Not that Brinkley would tell me if I asked. Boss Brinkley was pretty tight-lipped unless he was giving direct orders.

The secretary went home at 5:00 p.m. and I’d been working seventeen hours straight, so I decided to dig through her desk to ward off sleepiness.

In addition to an impressive array of writing utensils, her desk had several pictures of her kids and a coffee cup that said, Procrastinate and you tempt fate! A real go-getter. I played with her label maker, placing labels that read Zombie touched this. Eek! on everything: her chair, her cup, her computer. I spared the kids’ pictures.

Ready to surf the internet, I pressed the power button and was startled by a loud pop. Deep inside the computer tower something fizzled and a wisp of smoke wafted through the vent holes.

Shit.

I thunked my forehead against the desktop. Second computer this week. It was like I short-circuited electronics by my touch alone.

I didn’t even have time to come up with an excuse for exploding the secretary’s computer when a familiar sinking sensation washed over me. My grip tightened on the edge of the desk.

Ally, I said, calling her name as loud as I could manage as my throat tightened around the words.

Mr. Reynolds froze in mid-motion. Ally spoke to him, but too softly for me to hear.

Reynolds hesitated. Clients often freeze up when I start to react. No one wants to die. To the clients, in this moment before it happens, it seems as if any movement could be the wrong one. He stared at me through the glass floor.

Sensing death was like a panic attack. I tried to breathe against the pressure in my chest. Nothing was actually wrong with me, except that some part of me knew what was coming, and that part of me panicked. My body flooded with adrenaline and was ready for anything. Here in this bright office, it seemed unlikely I was going to get hit by a bus, stabbed, crushed or shot, right?

Wrong.

I closed my eyes and tried to quell this sick feeling. Before I opened them again, something heavy came crashing right through the desk, knocking me backwards out of the chair. I hit the back of my head on the window-wall with a thump and my ears rang on impact. Shards of glass from the secretary’s desk sprayed my face like water. I tried to shield myself with my open hand and swore like crazy.

Who designs this shit. I pulled a large sliver of glass out of my left forearm. It had gone straight through my arm. Blood spurted out of the wound, ruining my jeans. Again.

Ally came down the stairs, taking the steps one at a time, carefully holding onto the rail. Good girl. Death-replacement was a one-on-one exchange. I couldn’t die for two people at once.

Mr. Reynolds? It was his body that had fallen on top of me, lying now in the mess of the secretary’s shattered desk. I kicked a chunk of desk off of me and I pulled myself out from under him, dragging my burning arm through broken glass.

Mr. Reynolds, can you hear me? I checked his pulse and it was faint, slowing.

I opened his suit jacket and pressed my hands to his chest as Ally’s voice echoed through the room. She gave the address and situation to the emergency operators on the phone. The tiny glass chunks in my arms and legs burned like hell as they worked their way in deeper into my skin. I saved the freaking out until after she hung up.

What the hell did you say to him? We don’t do suicides. I was talking too fast. Okay, so having a body drop on me unexpectedly caught me off guard. At least I couldn’t be blamed for the broken computer now. And what the hell is it with fat men falling on me? That’s two this week. I’m like one hundred twenty pounds, assholes.

It became a race to see who could speak the fastest with the widest eyes.

"I didn’t make him jump, thank you. I told him when you get pale like this it means it’s about to happen. So instead of paying attention to his own two feet, he watched you. He tripped on the laptop cord and rolled right over that damn rail." She pointed up, looking freaked too.

You have to stop telling them they’re about to die, I said. I leaned close to his ear and shouted, "And you have to get wooden desks."

As if reacting to the thunder of my own voice, my vision gave over completely, switching from dizzying spottiness to full-blown waves of color.

The room was a shifting aurora borealis of heat and light. Even weird shit can be comforting, when you expect it.

I really wished Ally could see it.

Jesse, he isn’t looking so good.

I focused on the man still partially in my lap. Reynolds was no longer a warm red-orange tinged with yellow like Ally. He was green, edging his way into the dormant blue-gray of the floor, the desk, and the walls. It was my job to keep the blue from overtaking him.

I couldn’t explain what I do exactly.

Death was the transformation of energy. I admit I was guessing. When someone was about to die, a tiny black hole was created inside them. Like a black hole in space, it looked like an empty swirling vortex. This vortex was what sucked all the warm, living colors out of a person, leaving nothing behind that could survive.

My job as a replacement agent was to convince the fleeting red of Mr. Reynolds, so ready to burn up its little flame and become a dormant blue, it really didn’t want to go into that swirling drain after all. Somehow I did this by willing it.

My colors have never matched Ally’s, Brinkley’s, or anyone who’d accompanied me in the room during a replacement. Lane too, I imagine, would be a more vibrant hue if I ever got a good look at him. The point was I seemed a welcome home for blue flame since I was always blue flame. Not the cold blue of furniture or buildings, more like a sparkly blue. Electric blue.

With Reynolds’s flame drawn into my own, it gave his red-warm fire room enough to burn. But there was a special spark I was looking for, and I had to find it inside him and keep it from being washed away.

The elevator opening and Ally shouting to the paramedics seemed like sounds underwater, as I focused harder on Reynolds.

Hurry, Jesse, she whispered.

A hot-cold chill settled into the muscles in my back and coiled around my navel like an invisible snake as I pushed my own flame further into Reynolds.

There—a spark where our flames danced around each other. Reynolds’s chest rose suddenly, jerking as he gasped, like gasoline thrown on the blaze.

But even though I scooped Reynolds’s precious spark out of danger’s way, the vortex didn’t simply close. Somebody had to go through that death drain. Unfortunately, that somebody had to be me.

So I exhaled one last breath and gave myself completely to the waiting darkness.

2

The ornate tile above Kirk’s head came into focus. Soft, creamy swirls and the smell of carnations welcomed me to the land of the living. I tried to sit up but stiff pain shot through my shoulders and back.

Be still, Kirk commanded, pushing me back down. It was the warning tone a grandfather gives his unruly grandchild.

My mortician Kirk loomed over me. He was well over six feet tall, bald, his skin the color of cocoa beans. His square frame cast a long dark shadow as I lay stretched out on his work table.

I hated everything.

The color of the walls, those damn stinky flowers, Kirk’s face. I was sore and wanted to walk it off, not lay here in pain.

Kirk’s face was a mask of concentration, a thin applicator brush jutted at my eye from one hand. He was an artist with a canvas.

Smells good, I said, trying to say something nice. It was a tip from Ally. If you feel hateful, just say something nice about the person.

Organic Rosemary Tint, he said.

Real dead people don’t care about their cosmetics. However, with developing necronite-mortician relationships, a whole line of organic cosmetics for customers like me had spawned. No amount of Maybelline would make me look okay after a replacement. I have a super-fast metabolism and some regenerative healing skills, but I need help putting parts of me back together. Which is why I needed Kirk.

Morticians were used to working with stiffs, so I could trust him to fix me up at any stage of decomposition. The hospital was responsible for making sure all my organs and appendages were accounted for and Kirk made sure I didn’t scare small children when I ambled home.

Did you notice anything strange? I asked.

He paused, the brush hovering over my bottom lip. Your heart beating in my hands is strange.

No, I mean anything unusual, I said. Anything you don’t usually see?

He considered my question. The he returned to painting my face. No. Why?

I thought about the strange electrical problems I’d had lately: coffee makers, light bulbs and the secretary’s computer, all exploding on their own. That wasn’t normal for me and it scared me a little—the way missing my period or losing a wallet scared me—not the mishap itself so much as the possibility of greater mayhem.

Kirk grinned and pulled off his glove with a snap. All finished.

He packed up his black case, arranging the box of gloves, varied brushes and cosmetics. He pulled off the other glove with a second snap and threw it in the waste bin. The fact that I could turn my head at all said I wasn’t zombie-shuffle sore.

When did I reboot? I asked.

He turned his wrist over and read his watch. Four hours ago.

That explained why the rigor mortis wasn’t so bad. My cells would’ve had time to push some of the calcium out and lessen the muscle contraction, but the only cure for rigor mortis was a hot bath, massage, lots of gentle stretching and most importantly, time.

What was my D.T.? I meant down-time or death-time. Necronites stay dead—no heartbeats, no breathing, actual decomposition and all that—until our brains reboot. Then we experience the coma state, in this case, the four-hour stint Kirk mentioned, while our bodies heal enough to support themselves and regain consciousness. Scientific minds are politely calling this whole process NRD, or Necronitic Regenerative Disorder. No hocus pocus here, folks.

Kirk looked at the ceiling as if calculating in his head. About fifteen hours. We’re coming up on 9:00 a.m.

Tuesday?

That’s the one.

I loved it when I slept through the night and woke up at a normal hour. It made the death-life transition easier.

Where’s Ally?

He wiped the bristles of a dirty makeup brush clean with a towel. Gone since she delivered your body last night. Brinkley’s here to take you home.

On cue, Kirk reached over and touched a sensor, letting Brinkley know he could come into the room now.

As soon as I saw my boss, I fell against the bed and faked a coma.

That shit won’t work on me, a familiar voice said and I didn’t feel the least bit compelled to quit playing dead. I’d rather be dead than deal with Brinkley any day.

Get up, he said, hands on his hips.

I groaned and dragged myself from Kirk’s table. My legs instantly stiffened as my feet connected with the floor. Groaning, I stretched each limb before rolling my eyes up to meet Brinkley’s.

Have I ever told you how much fun you are? I asked.

More than once.

Brinkley was a tad shorter than Kirk with the same wide shoulders and early signs of a beer gut. I thought they knew each other from the past. I knew Brinkley was in the military at some point before joining the FBRD, the Federal Bureau of Regenerative Deaths. Maybe he knew Kirk back then, and that’s why Brinkley set him up as my mortician when we relocated from St. Louis.

Whatever his past, Brinkley was more like a cop than a soldier now, given his work with FBRD. But his graying hair and sour face said it all. He’d seen some things in the world that he hadn’t liked and he’d been dealing with them ever since.

I often felt like I was one of those things.

I got another batch of your reviews, Brinkley said.

Brinkley waved a thin stack of post-replacement survey cards at me before tossing them for me to catch. They were held together by a rubber band. Each sported a different color ink and handwriting.

I groaned. I could already feel the lecture coming.

My personal favorite, and I quote, he said, through tight lips. Ms. Sullivan is like a human Chihuahua who barks at anything that moves.

I don’t bark. I flipped through the cards.

I believe it’s a comment on your constant sarcasm, Brinkley said. He slipped his hands into his pockets. Not that any of us have had the pleasure of experiencing said sarcasm.

My commentary is not constant, I argued. I flicked the card. That woman was mad because I called her a hoarder. She had, like, two million creepy dolls.

Kirk grunted, suppressing a laugh. What kind?

Porcelain—and some of them were clowns, I answered, stretching my neck long, left then right. My neck muscles ached like I’d spent the night head-banging. If I really was a mean person I would’ve teased you about that stain on your pants.

All of our eyes went to Brinkley’s crotch and the dark stain about four inches below his gun.

I arched an eyebrow. I could say—

Brinkley stopped me, ears bright red. That— He refused to look at his crotch, which resulted in his pointing at it. —is your fault.

I’d remember making you piss blood.

His tone turned dangerously even. The doctors missed a piece of glass. When I pulled it out, you squirted on me, he said, jaw tight. It would seem even your corpse is a sarcastic little shit.

Kirk, whose eyes had merely gone back and forth between us as we argued, gave a polite cough.

If you’ll excuse me, Kirk said, squeezing my shoulder. Kirk and Brinkley did a male nod thing. Brinkley and I were left standing in the back room.

We’ve worked together for the last seven years, yet I found being alone with him awkward. Maybe awkward wasn’t the right word—uncomfortable.

I’m scared to even ask how it went with Mr. Reynolds, he asked, relaxing his shoulders a little. I hope you gave him a nice impression of necronites. We pay him to make you look good.

I saved his life, I said. If that even counts.

That’s only part of the job.

The hard part, I mumbled. The part I don’t even get thanked for.

You have to comfort them. People need to feel safe, he said, as if he hadn’t said this a bazillion times.

They aren’t safe. I thought of all the ungrateful jerks I’ve had to deal with. How many lives had I saved? Sixty-seven. Sixty-seven, yet I could count on one hand the people who’d actually thanked me for it. If they were safe they wouldn’t need me to begin with. I made a big show of flipping through the survey cards without actually looking at them.

Are you trying to get fired? he asked.

Yes, I thought. I dreamed about quitting my job twenty times a day, about the clever things I’d say to Brinkley at the moment of regaining my freedom.

It’s not like it’s raining zombies or anything.

Don’t use that word. His anger was back, unfurling as fast as mine.

"Fine. Necronites are like 2 in 100 people. You’ve managed to convince less than half of us saps to be death-replacement agents. Act like you can call up an old friend to do my job. Puh-lease."

Silence filled the room, amplified by the whirl of air seeping through the overhead vents. I’m not so good with silence so I kept talking.

I just wish you wouldn’t work me twice as much as the other agents.

His eyes narrowed. What’s that supposed to mean?

I mean that I have to do twice as many replacements as Cindy. And Cooper weasels his way out of a replacement every five minutes.

I’m not their boss. I’m your boss.

Too late to turn back now. The point is I work harder and I get yelled at more. That’s the definition of unfair.

Brinkley’s face went from white to red. You don’t know how good you’ve got it.

Clearly, I huffed.

Cooper is on a military contract, Brinkley said. He goes where they want, when they want. He doesn’t get a say about where he eats or sleeps. You and Cindy were both hired on as personal consultants. You should appreciate that.

I clucked, indignant. Why?

Cindy and Cooper have clocked five times as many hours as you in community seminars, hospitals, police stations, he continued, waving his hand. They do that to protect you. All of you. A necronite’s rights are void upon death in Utah and Alabama. They amended their state constitutions saying that once you die the first time, you don’t deserve rights anymore. You are no longer a person. What if they do that here in Tennessee? The bill is already drafted. And I can’t even trust you to behave in a five-minute interview.

Because you think I’m a social cripple. I don’t know why, I said. I pointed at the feedback card on top. This person gave me a three.

Out of ten.

Isn’t one the best? I asked.

Ten is best, he said. And you promised me ten years.

The temperature shifted. An imaginary cube of ice slid down my spine and Brinkley’s eyes grew dangerously steady. When he went real still and quiet like this, it freaked me out. If he were a cat, his tail would be flicking, signaling that he was about to pounce.

He took a step closer.

His large body blocked the light from the hallway, making the room darker and smaller. I was trapped.

He placed his hands on his hips making himself look even bigger. His voice dropped. After what I did for you, Sullivan, you owe me.

I looked up into his black eyes. Do you enjoy blackmailing your slaves?

Slavery is a life sentence, he said. Which is what you’d be serving in the Illinois State Penitentiary if it wasn’t for me.

He was right of course.

The suffocating smell of smoke and the sounds of sirens in the distance came back clear and sharp. Wooden rafters crashed down around me as the flesh of a man, charred and black, roasted in front of my very eyes. My very first death had been a barn fire—and not an accident.

I only remembered vague bits and pieces of my life before that death. I didn’t even remember Ally though she told me we’ve been friends since childhood. What few early memories I had were not of birthday parties or the prom.

But I remember killing a man.

I pushed against the memory until I was dizzy, grabbing the edge of the table.

Brinkley knew he’d won. And don’t talk to me about your emotional suffering. What if I added a year to your contract for every ounce of grief you give me?

I bit my lip until the room and Brinkley came into focus, but I couldn’t get the smell of burning flesh out of my nose.

I can’t help it. I shrugged. I had to do this to lessen the horrible tightness between my shoulder blades. It’s what I do.

Here’s what else you’re going to do. He took another step toward me and I stepped back. So much for standing my ground. You’re going to do your job. Smile until your lips bleed. Bend over backwards to make your clients happy. Become the poster child for death replacement until every last one of those extremists believe necronites have souls. Saving lives is only a small part of what we need to accomplish here. We have to change the world.

Gawd, you don’t want much, do you?

I mean it, Sullivan, he said. You might not take your job seriously, but it is serious. This is a war between us and them and I want you front and center. You think I make your life hard but believe me, I know plenty of people who want to make it harder.

Very motivational, chief.

He turned to leave. If your next review is anything less than a seven, I’m pulling the plug and you can spend the rest of your life wearing an orange jumper.

That’s it? End of discussion? Someone needed to teach Brinkley how to communicate.

Just wait until the prison inmates hear about your talents, he added, finally moving toward the door. They’ll enjoy discovering all the ways you can die.

3

Greenbrook was a cute suburb of Nashville, enterable by two roads that intersected on either side. Fifty or so houses sat on six blocks. The houses weren’t uniform, which I liked, although each unit had a certain similarity. For instance, like mine, most were two stories high with an attached garage. The exteriors varied in their brick, stone, or siding combinations, but the garage doors were usually white, windowless slats.

Lots of trees and flowerbeds and a running trail wove in and out of the woods to form a two-mile loop. Each house had an acre or more of grass and trees surrounding it. I walked up my driveway, past the burgundy Japanese maples with their starfish shaped leaves. Ally planted those last year. They complemented my house’s white-gray marbled brick exterior and black shutters nicely.

I padded across the tiles to the sliding glass door, throwing my jacket on a chair and my keys on the counter on my way to greet Winston. The pug was a heap of wrinkles in his doggie bed, legs spread wide, and his face pressed desperately into an empty food dish.

I know Ally already fed you.

Drool oozed from the side of his mouth and he batted his sad brown eyes at me.

You’re disgusting, I said, lifting him from the bowl and snuggling him. "But I love your squish face so much."

Hello, a voice called from the living room.

I carried Winston in my arms to the edge of the couch where I found Lane. He was tall, but to me everyone was tall, packing a good deal of muscle in his slender frame. Lucky for him, I had one of those large sectional couches. He’d never have been able to stretch out as he was now, one arm behind his head like a makeshift pillow and other hand lying across his stomach, if I had anything smaller.

He smiled that mischievous, knee-buckling smile. He wore pressed, black jeans and a short-sleeved button up dress shirt the same ocean blue as his eyes. If he was dressed so nice, and smelling so nice—he was either here for sex, or he’d come from his mother’s house. If it was from his mother’s no doubt she lectured him about his dark hair being a month overdue for a cut. Though I’d never had said a word, loving the way it curled at the ends around his ears, chin and brow.

He also wore a smiley face button pin above his left breast, near the collar. I’d given it to him on our first and only date to a carnival where I’d won it. I was trying to win a goldfish, but twenty dollars and forty terrified fish later, the carney gave me the button and politely told me to go the-F away.

Ok, yes, so Lane and I went on one date. One. Why only one date? Carnival games, gut-twisting rides, and cotton candy beneath the swirl of an artificial lightshow had somehow turned into mind-blowing sex—in my bed no less. Mind-blowing anything was bad for a zombie. Let me say I reacted as any sensible person would. I promptly locked him out, leaving him on my front porch, clutching his remaining clothes. I’d tricked him by saying I’d left my phone in the car and of course he volunteered to get it. Mean, I know, but how else could I get him to leave? He’s twice my size.

To my credit, I’ve since learned that asking works just fine and no longer resort to such trickery. But in the beginning, I hadn’t known that.

And you’re here for—? I already knew why he was here.

I was hoping it was one of those days, he smiled—a small but hopeful smile.

One of those days—a sex with no strings attached day. Because even though I didn’t want to be someone’s girlfriend, Lane and I were fan-TAS-tic, so I had a hard time keeping the boy out of my bed.

Perhaps, I said and scratched the pug behind his ears. But I’m awfully sore.

I can be gentle, he said.

I grinned and Lane was on me. Poor Winston was flopped onto the couch like an unwanted remote and I was lifted up and carried to my bedroom.

Okay, not too gentle, I said and bit his neck, leaving a small crescent moon of teeth marks. Don’t treat me like I’ve got a broken hip.

Do you? he asked with a quirk of his lips.

Not this time, I said. To make my point, as soon as he set me on the bed I started to tear off his clothes. But when it was my turn, I always thought a little too much about my autopsy scar. Lane made a point of kissing it just to prove it didn’t bother him, and while I found this gesture sweet, it didn’t completely erase that moment of panic I got when I removed my shirt in front of anyone.

I pushed my insecurities aside and gave in.

He stayed true to his word and was careful with me—except for where it mattered. I had to change positions a few times when a muscle seized up, but overall it was just wham, bam, thank you man.

I felt a million times better when I woke up in the gray shadow of my room. Brinkley’s lecture and Mr. Reynolds’s snide remarks had faded into the background as night grew thicker around us. Sunset fell in orange ribbons across the bed sheets and through my open bedroom window a soft breeze cooled the sweat on my skin.

Lane was a dark lump beside me. He was stretched long and the curve of his neck, shoulder and chest muscles collected the pooling darkness. I watched his chest rise and fall.

My phone vibrated on the nightstand. Ally’s name and picture showed up on the little square screen. Did you make it home okay?

Yeah.

Good, she said and then sighed. But I think we have a problem.

Of course.

I checked the appointment book and we have a replacement scheduled. At midnight, we’re supposed to meet—the sound of a page flipping crackled through the phone. —Eve Hildebrand.

Brinkley’s an asshole, I grumbled and Lane curled up to me. I threw his heavy arm off of my shoulder and pushed him away. He seemed to have forgotten that we don’t cuddle. I haven’t even healed.

That’s the thing, Ally said. I don’t believe Brinkley filed it.

Who else could have? Brinkley was the only one with access to my office and the only one who signed off on replacements. There was a bin on my desk and even if Ally and I did a million consultations, I only replaced the clients whose folders were in my bin. And Brinkley was the only one who put names in that bin. He was like God in this way, deciding who deserved a second chance.

I don’t know, but it’s strange. The profile is for a hooker, Ally said.

Since when did you care about non-traditional occupations, I asked, honestly surprised.

Ally was one of those tree-hugging, I-love-everyone types. In her senior photo, she had dreadlocks and hemp jewelry, though you’d never know it for all her professionalism now.

I don’t care what she does for money. I mean, I care because it’s sad, but she doesn’t exactly fit our typical client profile, she said. There’s barely any information on her, like no address, no medical history, no anything. It’s only her name and a phone number.

Lane stirred and I switched the phone to the other ear. Did you ask Brinkley?

I can’t get ahold of him, she said. Can you call him?

That unhappy feeling crept into my gut again. I was hoping to avoid Brinkley for a week if I could get away with it. I think he’s tired of me questioning his methods.

Yes, but something about this is wrong, she said.

Does it have Brinkley’s signature? I asked. Is the money present and accounted for and the paperwork filed?

Yeah, but—

Then we have to do it, I said. Or run the chance of going to prison.

Ally exhaled slowly. She didn’t like it, but she wasn’t going to fight me. Do you want me to pick you up at eleven?

Please. And can you bring me a coffee. Triple shot. I’m already exhausted.

Why wouldn’t you be? Lane purred.

I hadn’t realized he was awake. The dead silence in the phone said Ally had certainly heard him. She hung up without even saying goodbye.

Lane propped himself up on one elbow, watching me watch the phone.

I thought you told her we were dating.

First of all, I said, angry now because I half-believed Lane had said something on purpose just to upset Ally—some kind of territorial male bullshit. You and I aren’t dating. We’re fucking and there’s a difference. Secondly, she does know, but I don’t feel like I have to shove it in her face every five seconds.

He got out of bed and pulled on his pants.

I didn’t want to be the only one naked here, so I pulled on my clothes too, shirt first.

You are very considerate, he said. He ran his hand through his hair but wouldn’t look at me. I didn’t know what else to say, so I picked up a fallen pillow from the floor, tossed it onto the bed and stormed past him.

I’m going to check the mail.

You do that, he fired back. I’m leaving anyway.

I could be just as stubborn. "Bye."

If he said bye, I didn’t hear it. I ran down the steps and out the front door.

Why were people so hard to deal with? Why did they have to be so emotional? God, my job came with so many risks, so many complications, that I wanted something easy. Something that wasn’t so serious. Hell, tomorrow I could start hallucinating big-eyed aliens come to probe my ass because my brain suddenly decides it has had enough of death-replacing and rips itself in two. It happens. My old mentor Rachel—the ex-agent who trained me—was already locked up for losing her shit. What if I spent the rest of my life in a loony bin, eating mashed bananas? That’s my possible future, so why the hell would I want to think beyond today?

Why didn’t Lane understand that?

At the end of the driveway, the first few yellow, orange and red leaves rolled down the paved street, a flurry of them, guided by the light breeze. I tried to let the air relax the tension between my shoulders as I listened to the dried leaves scratch along the concrete. I closed my eyes and took a breath but when I opened my eyes I saw a bird.

A big black crow hopped at my side and cawed loudly. I yelped in surprise, catching my hand on the mailbox’s metal red flag. After shaking the pain out and sucking at a red gash, I retrieved the mail slowly. I was afraid the bird might peck my eyes out if I made any sudden movements. His sleek, black body was such a contrast to the gray concrete, that he looked wet.

I scanned what was visible of the block. The orange-pink sunset was settling between the houses and cars, giving their edges a soft glow. The bird continued to do that side-to-side wobble of a creature unaccustomed to using its tiny legs. He defaulted to a sort of flap, hop, shuffle, like he was trying to get my attention with this little dance.

Go on. Shoo, I said, irritated. You’re creeping me out.

He cawed loudly, spread his black wings out on either side of him, and looked as if he would fly right at my face. Maybe I screamed once because Lane appeared out of nowhere. He was dressed now, but hadn’t done a thing about his mess of hair.

What’s wrong?

That crazy bird, I said, pointing my mail in that direction, but the bird was gone. There wasn’t even a single speck of black in the sky.

I don’t see any bird, he said. He pulled his keys out of his pocket and unlocked his truck.

I guess you scared it off.

That’s what I’m good for, he grumbled and got into his truck.

Are you really going to pout? I grabbed his door. When did you become such a girl?

He put his keys in the ignition like he was going to leave me without even saying goodnight. He just got laid like a million times and he wanted to be mad about it? Seriously?

Fine. See you around, I guess. I would, of course, since my office and his comic bookstore were in the same building. It’s how we met. He owns the building, some inheritance from a dead family member, and I rent one of the offices. Brinkley chose the location, so it wasn’t like I chose my office space for the hottie landlord. Though that sounded like something I’d totally do.

Jesse, wait. He stopped me when I was halfway to the front door.

I slowly walked back to the truck and propped my elbows on his open window frame.

I’m not mad, he said.

You sure seem mad.

I’m not mad at you anyway. His voice was soft and sincere.

Who are you mad at? I asked. I hope it’s not Ally and that’s why you shove our—whatever—in her face.

Relationship.

Arrangement, I corrected.

I can’t— he made a gesture to imply the word he couldn’t even say.

Don’t I make it easy? I asked.

He gripped the steering wheel until his knuckles went white. Men actually do have feelings. And if you haven’t noticed, I care about you, enough that I can’t— he sucked air and when he spoke again, his voice was so much softer. "I can’t just fuck you without wanting more."

Then maybe we shouldn’t have sex, I said.

He didn’t say anything right away and my heart skipped a beat.

Yeah, maybe, he said finally and the pounding grew louder.

He was going to agree with me? Don’t people believe in idle threats anymore?

Okay. I had no idea what else to say. I was choking on this horrible lump in my throat. That’s twice someone had said this to me. I want more.

First Ally, now Lane.

Lane leaned out of the window and kissed me goodbye—a very soft, very sweet, brush of the

Reviews for Dying for a Living Complete Boxset (Books 1-7)

[Matt · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

This was a great read. Great characters, great story. Keeps you interested and curious the whole time. First time reading this author. Will definitely read this author again. Thanks

[Kate Moshier · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

What a journey! Do yourself a favor and read it!